Worse Than Death
by Fenris Tyr
Summary: Chris had long believed that to become infected was a fate worse than death, the worst fate he had ever seen. Now... he wasn't so sure. Oneshot.


**Title: Worse than Death **

Rating: T

Genre: Horror/Drama oneshot

Character: Chris Redfield

Disclaimer: I don't own Resident Evil, Chris Redfield, Umbrella, or anything else related to them. Capcom does, and they are used here for non-profit entertainment purposes only.

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Chris tore through the concrete corridor at full speed, his senses assaulted with every pounding step. The straining wall lights hummed with effort, and again and again he moved beyond the reach of the dim glow, and the looming shadows swallowed him up… only to spit him back out. The passageway reeked of the fetid water that had spilled from the decaying pipes, mingling with the tang of his sweat and blood. A cold numbness was seeping into his limbs, and his leg muscles juddered with each panicked stomp of his boots on the slippery ground. 

The worst was the sounds, echoing all around him. His panting breath… the pounding of his feet… the dripping and trickling of water… the splashing and sloshing of the puddles below him…the buzz and hum of the facility machinery…

And above them all, the screeching.

Chris recklessly darted around a corner, never even slowing. He didn't see the abandoned cart, full of tools… only felt it as his body hurtled directly into it. The sound of metal on metal, and metal on concrete, exploded into Chris' ears. The momentum sent him careering forward… forward and downward. Instinctively, he rolled on impact to lessen the blow of the hard surface on his body. After the few seconds of clashing din, he could hear again that horrible screaming that echoed through the corridors.

Heedless to the pain and exhaustion, Chris scrabbled urgently with his hands and feet. He recklessly slammed his heels onto the slimy floor… trying to dig them in… to push himself back. His boots slipped from the foul dampness and filthy grime that pervaded the whole place. He focused on the clumsy efforts of his feet. One shoulder bashed into the wall. Chris kept going, inching along… until his other shoulder met the same obstacle. His feet stopped their fumbling efforts. A corner.

With his Beretta still clutched in a death grip, he covered his ears. The light above him flickered constantly. He screwed his eyes shut. Even through his blood-smeared hands, he could still hear it.

That horrific cry.

Chris was alone here. He knew that. Another lab, another mission – only, this one was risky… too risky to drag any of his friends into it. Better only one of them is in danger than many, he had told them. Now, he realised, his choice had robbed him of something important – an anchor, a lifeline, even hope. He wished he had listened to their protests. There was no-one here to turn to, to rely on, to keep him sane in this hellhole of madness.

He hated this… this display of weakness. He had faced zombies and mutated creatures ever since that fateful night at the Spencer Mansion. He was immune to their monstrousness now – he felt hatred, yes, but towards Umbrella, for creating these twisted weapons. He loathed the fact that he had snapped finally, that his mind had let slip its grip on control. He was ex-military. He was ex-STARS. He was a leader. He was a survivor.

But he hadn't been facing a zombie or a monster.

The Umberlla lab had seemed deserted – victim to an outbreak, perhaps? The only things that moved were escaped experiments, and ex-human researchers and guards. No-one was actively trying to stop him gathering information just yet. Chris had worked his way into a locked office to search for more documents there, only to have his training and his senses whirl him around, handgun ready, at a trembling form curled up across the room from him. Chris had at first believed it to be a zombie of a researcher, but as he looked closer he saw the decay was a different kind of decay. It was not decomposition. The frail form whimpered, and Chris lowered his gun.

It was a living human.

Chris realised that he must have locked himself in the room to secure himself against attack by his former colleagues, and had simply stayed there to wait for rescue, too afraid to leave and find a way out. He must have waited far too long. Chris could see the man's bones clearly through the skin. This decay was starvation. Appalled, he had gradually inched closer, speaking softly, trying to reassure the poor man that he was no zombie, and he wasn't going to hurt him. The scientist had shrunk further away, as if he didn't understand. When he had put his hand on his shoulder, the man cried out in fear. Chris pulled back, cautious.

The man chanced a look at him, and Chris saw that the eyes were darting and wild. It was as if they were seeing something that wasn't really there, fooled by the shadows and the silence. He made another attempt to get through to the frail survivor, grabbing both shoulders and speaking clearly. It was a mistake – the man just began to scream in terror, and flailed his bony limbs to throw Chris off. He finally let go when the lost scientist scored long red marks down his face and neck, the brittle fingernails breaking the skin and drawing out blood.

Even after Chris retreated out of range, clutching his minor wounds, the man screamed… and kept on screaming.

Chris backed into the door as the screaming of this poor man grated on him. It wasn't just the body that had decayed. The man's mind had as well, all sanity fleeing from him as he cowered in this ravaged hell. When the brief shock wore off and he could stand the sound no longer, Chris left the room without hesitating. Yet, the horrible screech of the mad soul carried through the door and echoed around the corridors. He had walked on through the facility, trying to ignore it. It unnerved his already shocked mind. No matter how far away from that office he walked, it seemed the sound always managed to carry to him, the echoes surrounding him.

In the end, something in his head snapped, and he just started running… running anywhere… trying to escape that scream of total horror and madness…

Here he was now; exhausted and huddled in a corner, like the man he had just encountered. _Becoming_ the man he had just encountered. In fighting the madness of Umbrella's experiments, would they all fall into madness themselves? He still had nightmares of encounters, just as his colleagues did, even if they had learned not to even flinch at the monsters during the hours of cold, hard reality. Was this his future – to have his sanity chased down by the trauma until it had nowhere left to hide? Was that man a glimpse of his future self?

Chris wasn't sure how long it was before the horrible sound died down, letting him rein back his self-control. Forcing himself to breathe slowly, he gathered his wits and stood. He checked his weapon, and began to move on. He was leaving… _now_.

He had always told himself, and others, that he would do anything to avoid being infected by the twisted viruses he fought. Chris never wanted to become like _them_ – the shambling corpses, mindless and hungry, or a twisted genetic mutant killing all in its path. Yet, that lone scientist had managed to avoid infection, hidden away untouched in that dimly lit office… and the children of Umbrella had still managed to destroy him.

Chris had long believed that to become infected was a fate worse than death, the worst fate he had ever seen.

Now… he wasn't so sure.

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A/N: OK, first ever RE fanfic. Sorry if this seems OOC - I've always reckoned that as well as characters in the RE universe seem to cope with insane monsters trying to kill them, everyone has their breaking point. They are still human, after all. Plus, I think if someone like Chris did snap, it wouldn't be due to fighting zombies and monsters (since he probably does that as a day job after RE and RE:CV).

Comments and Constructive Criticism are welcomed!

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